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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27989349">Ashes, Ashes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmrsmuise/pseuds/callmrsmuise'>callmrsmuise</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Worst Witch (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Family Drama, Past Abuse, rape mention</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:01:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27989349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmrsmuise/pseuds/callmrsmuise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>HB's Mom's Tragic Backstory AU</p><p>“When I was born, my father’s sister moved in to live with us. It is a Hardbroom tradition that the most powerful witch in the family will help to raise new witches. My family believes that this ensures the Hardbroom line will remain powerful. Until I was five, my mother and I saw more of Hysteria Hardbroom than we saw of my biological father. I believe my mother loved her very much.”</p><p>This fic is an AU that focuses on events involving the Hardbroom family before and after Hecate is born. Almost every character in this story is an OC except for HB and the Cackles. The story is meant to be a part of HB's tragic backstory, focusing on her mother Ruth and her godmother Hysteria, and what happens to them. Unfortunately, it will not end well. Can't have a tragic backstory without... tragedy. I'm sorry. I hope you read for the journey and not the destination.</p><p>At first this was a series of drawings and comics I made to post on my tumblr (@deirdresart) but now I'm just writing it all down and posting it here instead!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hysteria Hardbroom/Ruth Hardbroom nee Redferne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hysteria doesn’t want to meet Ruth. Not at first. </p><p>The Hardbroom family wants daughters. Many daughters, if her brother and his bride can manage it. More than anything, Hysteria Hardbroom wants to be godmother to all of them. Feelings of pity and guilt can absolutely not destroy this tenuous circumstance, and so Hysteria must do everything she can to avoid Ruth before it is time.</p><p>This is why when her own godmother bustles up to her, wide-eyed with cigar smoke streaming from her nostrils, Hysteria feigns nonchalance.</p><p>“The girl is sobbing in her bridal gown as we speak!” Godmother hisses. She’s leaning in so close that the brim of her pointed hat nearly collides with Hysteria’s temple. The fuzzy thing Godmother wears as a wrap starts to gnaw at the sleeve of Hysteria’s own formal attire. She snatches her arm away.</p><p>“What do you expect me to do about it?”</p><p>“Get in there and <em> fix her </em>!” Godmother hisses. With that she veers away, taking the arm of Hysteria’s father. Gethin Hardbroom looks gaunt and stricken as ever, even in his nicest suit. His eyes stare ahead blankly, which is more or less what they always do. His white hair falls loose in his face. He barely reacts when Godmother grabs him. Instead he wobbles, then promptly submits to his sister-in-law’s jostling. She steers him towards the row of seats at the front of the wedding congregation.</p><p>Hysteria watches them go. Then she turns, setting off in the opposite direction. The garden is filled to bursting with useless guests, most of which are from some of the oldest and most well respected witching families in Europe. By default in this case, loyal and true friends of the Hardbroom family. Hysteria puts on a show of delight at seeing each Hallow and Doomstone as she skirts laden flower beds, useless tulle decorations, and the bone-white water fountain that bisects the center aisle.</p><p>The manor’s interior is dark and cool, which is a welcome relief. Hysteria rubs her gloved hands together as she crosses the foyer.</p><p>
  <em> Get in there and fix her.  </em>
</p><p>The implications of that line are hardly subtle. Magic in a household such as theirs can not fix everything, but the family certainly acts as if it can… Godmother herself employs magic heavy handedly as a solution to nearly everything. Mentally, Hysteria decides it is better that she go to Ruth now. Hysteria may be the more talented Hardbroom witch, but Godmother is the head of the family, and she’d take any issue that couldn’t be solved by Hysteria into her own hands. Spirits forbid.</p><p>Hysteria mounts the stairwell and hurries up to the second floor where her very own bedroom has been commandeered for the sort of preparations a bride’s family may inflict upon her those few hours before her marriage.</p><p>“Oh, Hysteria! Thank the many goddesses!”</p><p>Talia Hardbroom stands, quivering, just outside the bedroom door. She looks just as scattered as she always does, despite the many layers of makeup and finery she wears. The hem of her dress is crumpled in her fists. She picks at it furiously. A threadbare fringe has formed beneath her fingers.</p><p>“She weeps like a dryad, I daresay.”</p><p>Hysteria takes the hem of her mother’s dress and passes her hands over it. The repaired fabric falls to the floor in a smooth cascade. With the other hand, she produces a handkerchief which she deposits into her mother’s outstretched palms. Talia immediately begins worrying her fingertips against it.</p><p>“Where is Ruth’s mother?” Hysteria asks, staring hard at the crack in the door.</p><p>“Within,” Talia whispers in her tiny, girlish voice. Her brow is wrinkled, which only deepens the gouge of the scar that runs down her face from forehead to eye socket. Despite its age, the scar is still crisp and red as it has always been. Talia Hardbroom looks like a woman who has been torn in half, then crudely stitched back together. Which, in a way, is exactly right.</p><p>“Alright,” Hysteria says . “Go sit down. We will be ready in a minute.”</p><p>When Hysteria passes through the door, the voices in the room hush. She scans the room carefully, considering the way the furniture’s been rearranged, the clothes strewn on the bed. The family’s angelic-looking stone servants are frozen where they stand, which is their own way of milling about until instructions are given. Besides the statues, the only other figures in the room sit huddled together on a little chaise by the window. They both jump when she enters, but only one of them rises to her feet. </p><p>Ruth’s mother is a short woman with doleful eyes that widen when she sees Hysteria. Her hair is a dark red but for the strands of gray throughout. It’s not nearly as bright or as curly as her daughter’s hair, which glows warmly in the afternoon sun. Ruth herself will not look up, and so Hysteria is left to squint at those fantastic vermillion curls.</p><p>“Well met, Miss Hardbroom.” Mrs Redferne does everything but curtsy in Hysteria’s presence.</p><p>“Well met,” Hysteria replies. Do you mind? I’d like to speak to Ruth.”</p><p>The elder Redferne nods and moves to go. Ruth makes an incoherent sound. She straightens, reaching for her mother with lace-adorned arms. Hysteria can just barely hear the bride’s voice.</p><p>“Please don't leave me with her. Please!”</p><p>It’s hissed in such a desperate, fearful tone that Hysteria’s chest tightens. This is what she hadn’t wanted. This is precisely what she hadn’t wanted.</p><p>Without a word, Ruth’s mother disentangles herself from her daughter’s white knuckled grip and leaves them alone, striding past Hysteria with her head down. The evident wariness makes Hysteria frown, but she thinks that it may have more to do with the Hardbroom reputation than anything else. After all, hadn’t this exchange been worth it? One precious daughter, no questions asked, for many lifetimes of association with a witching family whose bloodlines went all the way back to the goddess Hecate herself. A family like the Redfernes would see this as a fair trade. With the Great Wizard’s health in decline and the entire witching world vying for a place as his successor, status was now a priority. And so, here they are.</p><p>“All of you may go,” Hysteria says again, more clearly. The stone servants in the room grind to life. Hysteria winces as their bare feet buffet the un-carpeted flooring. When she is Godmother, she thinks, the statues will be keeping themselves on their garden pedestals where they belong.</p><p>Even after all the servants have gone, Ruth will still not look at her. She ducks her head, sniffling. Hysteria takes her hat off.</p><p>“No use crying on your wedding day,” she says, just loud enough for Ruth to hear. “My brother is the sultan of misery. There will be occasion to cry another time.”</p><p>Slowly, Ruth raises her head.</p><p>She is… very beautiful, which Hysteria had been told but hadn’t prepared herself for. Ruth’s face is round and full. Her cheeks are very pink, with a smattering of freckles and a softness to them that seems unreal. Even her eyes, which are red from crying, are also a deep, warm brown that strikes Hysteria immediately. They would be such friendly eyes, were they not marred by sorrow. Oh, she would like to raise a goddaughter with such eyes.</p><p>“You’re Hysteria,” Ruth says. It’s not a question.</p><p>“I am,” Hysteria replies unnecessarily.</p><p>“Please don’t magick me.” Ruth says. Hysteria’s chest tightens again. This time, very painfully. This is exactly what she hadn’t wanted. This is, in fact, everything she’d avoided up until this point. She stands, rooted in place, trying to weigh her options. She tries to tell herself that none of this is her doing. It is not up to her whether Ruth stays or goes. She’s already agreed to marry Alistair, and all Hysteria needs to do is help her along.</p><p>Magic would be merciful. She could take Ruth by the strings, right now, and puppet her down the stairs, across the foyer and into the garden where the guests sit waiting. She could send Ruth down the aisle, cheeks dry and glowing, her mouth a toothy crescent. It would spare them the entire ordeal. It would make things easier for just about everyone. Easier for everyone except Hysteria. Easier for everyone except for Ruth.</p><p>Hysteria picks at the fabric of her gloves. It hurts that her family, namely her Godmother, would threaten Ruth with something like Hysteria’s magic. It feels acutely horrible.</p><p>“Is that what they told you I would do?”</p><p>Ruth gulps, her eyes wide and wet.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“No.” Hysteria says. She drifts further into the room. “It’s alright. Can I sit with you instead?”</p><p>Ruth ducks her head.</p><p>“Please,” she whispers.</p><p>Hysteria goes to her. She positions herself carefully next to Ruth on the sofa, taking the other woman’s hands into hers. Hysteria doesn’t smile. She can’t muster the false sentiment well enough that it plays convincingly across her face. Instead, she thinks about what this means for their family, now that Ruth is in it. It means children. It means a goddaughter of her own. So this is good. Ruth being here is very, very good. </p><p>Because of this notion, what Hysteria says next is filled with genuine warmth. It is imbued with relief and breathless, wondering potential.</p><p>“Well met, Ruth.”</p><p>. . . </p><p>The Salons, as Witching Clubs do, make everything go away. This is why Hysteria likes them. </p><p>She’d left England almost as soon as the wedding ended, knowing full well what she was leaving behind, but not wanting to think about it until she was needed. Until someone came to fetch her back.</p><p>That is how she spends 6 months in a familiar, frolicking jaunt across Europe. First to Paris, then to Provence. She’d flown over Italy to the Greek Islands, skipping across them like stepping stones. Then, on a whim, she’d skirted across the Mediterranean to meet with an on-again-off-again girlfriend in Tunis. And then, finally, back to Paris again. </p><p>It’s a magnificent way to avoid her responsibilities. The Clubs themselves are a hotbed of irresponsibility. The Parisian witches call them Salons, but they are so unlike their non-magical counterparts. The Witching Salons are fantastic and uninhibited, and have been since before the conception of any other kind of Salon. Hysteria wouldn’t dislike English witching traditions so much if the French ones weren’t entirely that much better.</p><p>For example, she likes the way the rooms turn and twinkle mysteriously like the rotations of the heavens, and the theatrical quality of it all. She likes how the witches here are unsubtle and friendly. She likes how the solemnity of the craft is near non-existent, what with the noise of the room and the walls laden with glittering artifacts. Potions to induce happiness and giddiness sit in diffusers at every little table, beside every chaise lounge. And the food! The wine! The conversation!</p><p>And the adorable Parisian witch who giggles when Hysteria smiles and beckons to her from across the room. And again when Hysteria plies her with champagne. And even again, when Hysteria, emboldened by the lateness of the hour and the champagne and the dimness of the witchlight, pins her to her little chair and kisses her deeply.</p><p>The witch stops giggling when, in a gesture clearly meant to imply more sinful acts, she takes Hysteria’s hands and peels away the thin satin gloves she wears.</p><p>The both of them stare.</p><p>“Ah. Your fingers,” the witch says.</p><p>“It’s fine, just ignore them.” Hysteria reaches up, leans in for more kissing. The other witch shrinks away.</p><p>“They’re ashen cursed!” she exclaims. Hysteria instinctually balls her hands into fists to hide the mottled burnt-gray skin.</p><p>“They’re not going to rub off on you.”</p><p>It doesn’t help. Even half-drunk in the bowels of Paris, any witch will know what ashen limbs imply. Even for Hysteria, whose curse only reaches as far as the knuckles on both of her hands, and has not spread farther. The witch is standing, making her apologies. </p><p>Face burning, Hysteria lunges for her. She grips the other woman’s arms tightly. The trapped witch lets out a shriek, her entire body bowing away at a violent angle.</p><p>“Look,” Hysteria hisses, rising as well. “Nothing’s happening. I’m touching you, and you’re perfectly fine.”</p><p>The other witch starts to cry.</p><p>“Let me go! Let me go!”</p><p>The woman’s voice rises above the music and banter of the salon. People are turning to look at them. Hysteria feels her expression twist with agony. She lets go. The witch, unprepared, staggers and falls butt-first onto the floor beside their table. Hysteria doesn’t try to help her up. It won’t stop her face from burning, her pride along with it.</p><p>“Would it help if I put the gloves back on?” She asks.</p><p>“No, Madame,” the witch blubbers as she gathers herself</p><p>“I’m sorry for frightening you.”</p><p>Hysteria watches her retreating back as she scampers away without a word. The other patrons are all turning away again, their probing eyes locked on some other event. Hysteria slumps back in her shadowy corner, finishes the champagne in her glass.</p><p>She’s just pulling her glove back on when the familiar silhouette of a wizard appears very suddenly at her table. She may owe it to the champagne, but she’s proud of herself that she doesn’t flinch. </p><p>“I feel I’ve tracked you all over the continent by now,” her brother says. It’s Alistair, come to fetch her at last.</p><p>“Have you enjoyed your travels?” Hysteria asks.</p><p>“Not at all, in fact.”</p><p>“Bully for you. Sit down. Have a drink.” Hysteria motions to one of the empty glasses at her table. It fills instantly.</p><p>“Witches here and their decadence. Godmother would hex you if she found out.”</p><p>“Fortunately for me, she won’t find out. What brings you to the world, Alistair?” Hysteria asks it as if she doesn’t already know.</p><p>“Ruth is pregnant. She’ll be eight weeks along now.”</p><p>“I’ll send her my condolences.”</p><p>Alistair frowns.</p><p>“Be serious. Our family wants you home. It’s time to remember your responsibilities.”</p><p>Hysteria rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t matter. It’s what she’s been waiting for. She casts about the room as if taking a last long look, worried she’ll miss something if she doesn’t. No one notices her. The little blonde witch is gone now. The room is darkening slowly as the evening wears out. Hysteria will go back to England. She will help Ruth raise her child. And she will do her duty to her family.</p><p>. . . </p><p>It is long past midnight when she arrives home, the manor is very dark, but Hysteria expects Godmother regardless. She expects the strange posturing of Godmother waiting on the hall, lit only by witchlight and the glowing cherry of her cigar. She expects a lecture on responsibility and duty. She expects an argument. </p><p>The Hardbroom family sits on the cusp of a dramatic shift in power. For Hysteria to have it from her own Godmother, she must first have her own godchild. A fetus is not yet a baby, but it may soon be one. Thus, Gothel still sits at the head of the table. She still manages the household and the allowances. Roles are assigned per her whim. No stranger enters or leaves the manor without her say-so. And no other family member dare contradict her. Any interaction Hysteria and her Godmother have from now until Ruth’s child is born will be rife with conflict. The two of them, each grappling for dominance as their dynamic wrenches back and forth.</p><p>Hysteria can feel her fingertips itch as she pushes open the heavy wooden door to the Hardbroom Family estate. Soon this will be hers. Soon.</p><p>But it’s not Godmother who greets her in the hall. Instead, a lank figure is standing at the top of the staircase to her left. The figure would not be so visible in the gloom were it not for the long nightshirt he wears, which falls limply over pale bony kneecaps and even paler shins.</p><p>“Well met, sir.” Hysteria says in a mock whisper.</p><p>“Who is there?” It’s a hoarse, low voice that calls to her in the darkness. </p><p>Hysteria sighs.</p><p>”It is your loving daughter, come home to raise new Hardbroom witches.”</p><p>“My daughter,” Hysteria’s father says. Hysteria gets to the first landing, peers up at him. He is not looking at her, he’s merely staring ahead, directly at the wall above her. “Where?”</p><p>“Right here,” Hysteria whispers, coming up the stairs. “Right in front of you.”</p><p>A light flickers in Hysteria’s periphery then. It broadens along the walls and falls upon her father’s face. Hysteria sees that his jaw is slack, like a sleepwalker’s.</p><p>“Gethin,” a gentle voice says. “It’s very late. Are you alright?”</p><p>Hysteria turns her head and watches as her sister-in-law walks towards him, one soft hand gliding along the balustrade. She jumps when she notices Hysteria standing there in her travelling cloak.</p><p>“Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”</p><p>“Well met, Ruth.”</p><p>“Well met. We weren’t expecting you so late.”</p><p>“I prefer to fly at night.”</p><p>“Ah,” Ruth says. “That does sound lovely.”</p><p>“It is,” Hysteria replies inanely. She shakes herself, gathers up her satchel from where she’s dropped it on the stair, and climbs the last few to the landing where her father stands.</p><p>He looks at her blankly, as if seeing her for the first time.</p><p>“Hysteria?” He says, brow scrunched in confusion.</p><p>“Come along now,” Ruth says. Her tone is very kind. Gethin reaches behind him, flailing with one hand. Ruth catches it. She guides him away from his teetering position at the top of the stairs.</p><p>“Good night, Hysteria,” Ruth says as she escorts Gethin down the dim corridor. “And welcome home.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There is some dark stuff in this chapter, so I just want to reiterate some content warnings for abuse, past abuse, implied non-con, flashbacks to trauma, mild gore</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>In the months that continue, Hysteria and Ruth do spend a lot of time together. In fact, while Alistair is almost constantly away on some business or other, Hysteria and Ruth become close with all the time they spend in each other’s company.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria does not sleep well in her own bed. It’s a ridiculous farce, but she can’t. It lends itself to staying up late, brewing potions by moonlight, harvesting ingredients that can only be harvested during the witching hour, taking long walks along the moor that surrounds the Hardbroom estate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is not the only Hardbroom prone to night walks. Her father for one, who inhabits the dark household like a ghost, does as he has always done since Hysteria was eight years old. He haunts the manor, wandering the corridors and whispering incomprehensible things to the pictures on the wall. Gethin Hardbroom is not dead, but Hysteria thinks he may as well be.  He is a pale remnant of himself, walking about listlessly every night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gothel Hardbroom, ever devoted to the craft as Hysteria is, does as she must during the full moons and the feast holidays. Her familiar, a vicious black siamese with bright yellow eyes, prowls the estate with her on these nights, the both of them reeking of sage. On off nights too, when the moon is not full and her potions ingredients are fully stocked, Gothel has been known to stay up in the lounge, smoking quietly in the dark, listening for the pallid footsteps of hoarse wanderers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, Hysteria was on a midnight stroll when she came across her mother, waist deep in a bog, the stinking muck holding her fast. The expression on Talia’s face had been very placid, and upon seeing Hysteria, morphed into sheer delight. She’d reached for Hysteria like a child reached for their mother, and Hysteria transferred them to safety with a flick of her wrist. When Gothel caught wind of that little ordeal, she’d taught the locks on the garden gate not to release Talia Hardbroom during the midnight hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only Alistair does not seem to wake or prowl. Alistair, who is often off on business for the family, who always seems happy and relieved to be in his own bed at night, cuddled up beneath the blankets with his beautiful wife or-- perhaps not. Alistair had never been one for affection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, of course, there was Ruth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth, who slept very well those first few months of her pregnancy, and as time wore on, slept less and less. Hysteria supposed it was for lack of comfort, assuming a pregnancy can be uncomfortable at times. Or it could have been Gethin who kept her awake, whispering and scratching at the cracks of closed doors as he did. Or it was Godmother’s chanting. Or the rattling at the garden gate. In any event. Ruth would wake, put Gethin back to bed, bring some coals for Gothel’s cauldron, fetch Talia inside, and ultimately find Hysteria wherever she was. They’d settle somewhere, talking quietly until the sun rose. Or they would walk arm in arm until Ruth felt tired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth quite liked the garden at night, where the flowers blanched themselves white and bloomed under the starlight. Where the statues stood as sentinels, as silent witnesses to their friendship. They did laps there, counter clockwise, and they would talk some more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet you’re wishing you were back in Paris with all of those beautiful witches and wizards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria had told Ruth about Paris by then, just as she’d told Ruth of her favorite spells, gowns, and constellations. In turn, Ruth had told her about the healing magic she knew, her favorite books, and the seaside village she grew up in. Ruth leans into Hysteria while they walk. Her shoulder is warm. Every so often Hysteria’s forearm might graze the round side of Ruth’s protruding belly. This is always accidental, though it secretly thrills Hysteria to be so close to the life growing inside her companion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth cheeks are flushed, from cold or exertion, Hysteria cannot tell. Her breath turns to little clouds in the night air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Greek islands are very warm this time of year, I might be there instead if I had no other obligations,” she replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like heaven.” Ruth adjusts her collar against the chill and looks at her pocket watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take you there someday,” Hysteria says. She would very much like to bring Ruth to Greece. She considers Ruth in a white sundress, her unruly red curls buffeted loose from their up-do. Then, Ruth walking on a beach. Ruth, freckled and smiling. Ruth, playing with a precious dark-haired child. Such joy!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go back inside.” Hysteria shudders back to reality. Ruth pockets her watch and steers them back towards the house. “It’s gone frigid out here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> At some point, the entire family began to realize that Ruth’s nightly awakenings had grown into full blown insomnia. It was not difficult to miss. She’d begun looking ragged and tired all the time. Gothel had acted particularly disgusted at the appearance of dark circles under Ruth’s eyes. A yawn would earn Hysteria a scathing look. It wasn’t her fault their family was noisy and Ruth wanted something to do when she woke, Gothel held her responsible anyway.</span>
</p><p><span>“She is carrying </span><em><span>your </span></em><span>godchild,” Gothel chides her early one morning. “See that she gets a decent night’s sleep at the very </span><em><span>least</span></em><span>,</span> <span>Hysteria.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“What?” She snorts defensively. “Shall I tuck her into bed like a little baby? Honestly...” Godmother’s resulting glare is a warning. Hysteria catches it fully, like a slap in the face. It reminds her instantly of invalid mothers and difficult labors. Of a familiar cycle of shame and horror that must be avoided at all cost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is why, that night when Ruth appears, Hysteria rises and takes her arm as usual. She leads them back to Ruth's empty bedroom, turning down the covers and conjuring a sleeping draught. The witch scrunches up her face in disgust, but drinks the potion anyway. It is a particularly potent one. She melts into the bedding just as quickly as Hysteria tucks it around her. Hysteria smooths out the wrinkles in the bedspread, straightens the pillow beneath Ruth’s head, and stands back to survey her work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is hard to fight the urge to pull up a chair and seat herself right there, so that she can wait for Ruth to wake again. Hysteria wonders what she’ll do now with her nights. If she’ll do anything at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This evening, she herself feels ragged and tired. Prying the half-drunk potion from Ruth’s hands, Hysteria downs it in one gulp. She barely makes it back to her own bedroom, passes out on the coverlet, not even bothering to take her shoes off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their days followed much the same, in relative, tentative peace. Their family prepared for the baby’s arrival with a sort of solemn formality--in the way they might treat a solstice ritual. At first, Ruth had been cheery and excited, offering her opinions on bassinets and what sort of wallpaper to redecorate the nursery with. That soon changed as she was met with pensive replies and somber looks from the members of the Hardbroom clan. Hysteria watched Ruth's apparent excitement grow dimmer and dimmer. It made her exceedingly frustrated with the formality, the somber gloom, just to see Ruth lose something of herself as a way of fitting in. So, they redid the wallpaper in the nursery as per Ruth’s suggestion, and Hysteria did what she could to indulge Ruth’s enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I ask you something?” Ruth asks, one evening as they sit in the den. Gothel is brewing Ruth’s sleeping draught tonight, and they’d settled near the warmth of the hearth to wait for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime,” Hysteria replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is it that you weren’t the one to get married for this family? If you had your own baby would it not make you Godmother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gothel, perched on her cushioned stool beside the cauldron, snorts so hard the potion below her fizzles with spittle. Hysteria frowns, but ignores her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I were married,” she explains carefully. “And had my own child, I would still be expected to raise them as a Godmother would. It’s about passing down our traditions more than anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Ruth says, smiling to herself. “Will our future children grow up together, then? Assuming they’re not born too far apart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother snorts again, stirs her potion. Hysteria thinks very carefully about what she’s going to say next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t expect to have any children in the future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother shifts to look at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ruth, you naïve child. You think any wizard in their right mind would stand to be touched by ashen fingers? Or have you not even seen--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother’s mouth falls open, she turns to stare disbelievingly at Hysteria. Hysteria can feel herself shaking. She looks at Ruth, who is staring at her gloved hands. She can’t speak. She gets up and goes to the parlor door, abandoning Ruth to Gothel’s needling words and potent fumes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides,” Hysteria hears Godmother’s voice behind her. “Hysteria prefers witches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you forgetting something?” </span>
  <span>Ruth is already taking her arm and leading her out of her hiding spot. Her expression is overly cheery. Hysteria suffers to let her try and lighten the mood. </span>
  <span>“Your Godmother practically spit in that sleeping draught, I’d rather sit up with you than drink it now. Let’s go look at the moon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’ll make you a new potion. You need the rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth settles into bed like she always does. Hysteria mentally checks her own potions stores, sets up a little burner and a small cauldron close to the bed, and summons the proper ingredients. Ruth reclines on her side to watch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can take your gloves off around me,” Ruth says as Hysteria combines ingredients, stirs clockwise, then counter clockwise. The ladle almost slips from Hystera’s fingers and into the drink. She tightens her grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ruth, it’s okay. I would rather you feel comfortable--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s what I want for you,” Ruth says. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria sighs, carefully lowering the heat on the burner, and peeling the leather from her fingers. The gray ash looks almost black in this light. The gold of her rings reflecting the flame of the burner strikes a contrast with her skin. It looks as if she has no fingers, only metal bands floating in midair just above her knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your rings,” Ruth says. “Do you ever take them off?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. And don’t ask me to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They keep the ash from spreading.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I see,” Ruth says. The potion has begun to simmer. Hysteria scoops it into a glass and hands it to Ruth. Ruth takes it, and with her other hand, touches the back of Hysteria’s fingers. “Do you think it’s bad?” She asks. “I mean, do you think you’re cursed quite awfully?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Many witches and wizards would have me think I am. Sometimes I think… well. It doesn’t matter. I can’t take it back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was always taught that ashen limbs were a side effect of some particularly nasty spells. Corporal magic, usually. It’s-- it’s something a witch does to herself in order to complete the spell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Painted on the inside of her eyelids is a moving image of Godmother, dipping Hysteria’s fingers in oil and setting them aflame with witchlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re half right, in this instance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth is quiet for a moment, then-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They say only evil witches have ashen limbs," she whispers. "Because it means they've done a horrible thing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria winces, swallows hard. <em>It had been in this very room. Before Alistair was born-</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't-” Hysteria trails off. She stares around, the memories rising very suddenly, very clearly in her mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The room had been her parent’s room as it was the one bedroom in the house with an adjoining nursery. Hysteria had been eight when Godmother moved her out of the nursery and into a bedroom down the hall. This was to make way for the baby, the new baby. Alistair- who'd grown undetected in the stomach of his silent mother for only a few months before Godmother noticed, and realized. Hysteria's grandparents had gone to lay in the family crypt just that year. She had no other aunts and uncles, aside from Gothel and Gothel’s long-dead husband. Hysteria was the only child in the house. Gethin, her father, the only man. Talia in her quiet rest, and then Godmother… somehow suddenly brimming with rage.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>On this particular night, Godmother woke her, and together they tiptoed down the hall so as to steal quietly into the room. Her parents lay sleeping and did not wake. Hysteria remembers the rotund swell of her mother’s stomach rising beneath the bedding.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Godmother put a finger to her lips, her eyes blazing, and produced the pot in which Hysteria reluctantly dipped her fingers. She knew the spell as Gothel taught it to her. She knew the incantation. But she did not know this part, and Godmother would not explain it to her. Not until her fingertips were aflame like candles, the oil pooling in pockets beneath her nails and the fire, hungrily fueled by it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At first, Hysteria could not feel it, so she followed Godmother dutifully to her mother’s bedside. She allowed Godmother to take ahold of her wrist, guiding it over her mother’s furrowed brow. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Say the incantation.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hysteria opened her mouth to speak. But the only sound that came out was a shriek. The witchlight had begun to burn like real fire, sizzling beneath her nails and into the very crevices of her fingerprints.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It hurts!” Hysteria shrieked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Say the incantation!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her father awakened then. Her mother did not, not the whole time. But Hysteria’s father did, he looked directly at Gothel, at the fire in Hysteria’s hands, and started to yell.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hysteria’s mother’s face remained smooth and unworried. She hadn’t done anything but lay in that bed since Hysteria was born. Gethin, alternatively, was frowning and swearing at Gothel, his faculties all in place, until Gothel seized him with tendrils of magic, hauled him back down on the bed, and gestured again for Hysteria to say the incantation. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When Hysteria did, touching her mother’s brow as she spoke, the flesh of Talia’s face split like an overstuffed cushion. Hysteria, had to stand on her tiptoes to get a better look. To her horror, inside the gouge was a great darkness. There was nothing but an empty hole where Talia’s mind should be. They would need to fill the hole with something. That was the entire purpose of this experiment.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Gothel, sweating with the effort to keep Gethin down, ordered Hysteria to come around to her father’s side of the bed. Flares of violent light were ricocheting off the walls, Gethin screaming around the spell that gaged him. The witchlight flared wildly at the tips of Hysteria’s fingers, urging her forward, reaching for its victim.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria snaps out of her reverie when Ruth takes Hysteria’s bare hand in hers, brings the palm of it to her cheek. Panic jumps instinctively in her throat. She tears her hand away, clutching it like she’s been burnt. In truth, she has. The memories are still there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ruth! Goodness. There-there’s no need for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? It’s not going to rub off on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes just a moment for Hysteria to realize what Ruth is saying. She crouches, fumbling for the gloves that have fallen to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you’re right. Of course you’re right. Take your potion now, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t put those gloves on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t—“ Hysteria pulls her hand back out from inside the glove she’s putting back on. “Yes, well. Goodnight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning, Alistair is sitting at the breakfast table when Hysteria comes down. Hysteria flexes her bare fingers self-consciously, and goes to her usual seat, hiding her hands under the table. She is fully prepared to make polite conversation with her brother until he leaves, keeping her hands out of sight when Ruth comes in, kisses Alistair, and goes to sit beside him. Without blinking, she snatches a serving spoon out of the air, lowers it over the porridge pot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Porridge, dear?” she says. Alistair let her ladle it into his bowl. Hysteria squints at her. The porridge serves itself in this household. The pot on its own is a popular heirloom prided by the family, having been hand-crafted some generations ago by a Hardbroom with a special interest in ceramics and animated furniture. There was no need for Ruth to take the serving spoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Porridge?” Ruth says next, looking at Hysteria.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Toast, then,” Ruth says, reaching for the bread basket with one hand and extending her other towards Hysteria. “Pass your plate, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to object, Hysteria lifts her plate. Ruth stares at it, or rather, Hysteria’s bare fingers. Alistair stops chewing, staring too. Without a word Ruth drops a slice of untoasted bread on the plate and sits down, her face flush with satisfaction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that necessary?” Alistair says, his face tightening with disgust. “I mean, what if we had a guest?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are no guests here,” Ruth insists. “Eat your breakfast.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading chapter 2! I think I'm getting the hang of this thing now! I'm updating the description of the fic as well, and changing the name. I'm finally starting to feel like this is a proper fic and not just something supplemental to what I've already drawn!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Their time together and relative peace is punctuated day to day by events rocked and torn asunder by the other members of the Hardbroom family. For example, Hysteria’s Godmother is always around...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should know, Hysteria, that I gave you a very powerful name,” Godmother drawls. They’re in the parlor. Dinner has been had, the fire on the hearth is crinkling down. Gothel is smoking her second cigar of the evening. She has the kind of expression that she wears when fire, hearth, and smoke mingle with some feeling of nostalgia only she can comprehend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria glances at Ruth. She’s perched attentively on the opposite couch. She looks pale and nauseous, as if she’s trying her best not to inhale the smoke from Gothel’s cigar. Hysteria beckons to the large double windows behind the pregnant woman, and they ease open. Night air filters into the room</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Hysteria says, reclining against the back of her chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know why I named you that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve told me many times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because when you were being born,” Godmother continues, “your mother screamed and cried laughing the entire time…. I thought, what a powerful thing, to be named after the first thing you ever inflicted upon the world. I named you for your mother’s hysteria.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She neglects to say that Talia had screamed and cried laughing, then fallen quiet and corpselike for the next eight years. But that is not relevant to the specific topic, the topic of naming, which Gothel has chosen to educate them on this particular evening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across from Hysteria, Ruth blinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not know you were the one to name her,” Ruth says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes,” Godmother says, her face brightening at Ruth’s interest. “It is tradition in our family that the Godmother of the household will name any new children, and name them quite powerfully.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is how Ruth is told.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you know,” Gothel explains. “This family prescribes it’s own set of traditions. My godmother was a very accomplished witch, as the godmothers before her. She raised me to become the most powerful witch of the Hardbroom line, and in turn I have raised Hysteria in a manner that her skill surpasses my own. Hysteria will be the one to train your daughters. In this way, she will uphold the powerful line of Hardbroom witches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria watches Ruth’s face as Gothel explains this. She notes with some alarm that this seems to be the first time Ruth is hearing of such a thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In fact,” Gothel continues nodding happily. “I daresay your child will be named and raised by one of the most accomplished witches on the planet, which I have seen to. While Hysteria’s mother and father stayed home, I was the one to show Hysteria the world and to teach her all she knows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You took her away?” Ruth’s nausea doesn’t seem to have alleviated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All for her education, my dear. You understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am very tired,” Hysteria interjects, realizing that she can’t sit through much more of this. Not this lecture. Not while watching Ruth's anxiety mount higher and higher as Godmother speaks. Hysteria excuses herself from the room knowing Ruth will follow. Ruth will find her, and they will speak of this together. She gets to her feet. “Goodnight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria does pretend at getting ready for bed. Instead she drags the burning coals from the hearth out across the floor of her room. She piles them in the center where the light from her window strikes the carpet, and works on her casting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s true she’s got the most talent in the Hardbroom family, but this doesn’t come without it’s own price. For Hysteria, this is practice. She remembers the first time she realized she would be the next Hardbroom Godmother. It was a given for her. She had no other female siblings or cousins. She was also the eldest, her little brother only an infant in her mother’s arms. She’d gone to her own Godmother, gesturing wildly with ashen fingertips to proclaim her discovery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gothel proceeded to warn her that if Hysteria neglected to become a powerful witch, she’d never take over as head of the family. Gothel wouldn't allow it. Hysteria insisted that she would become a more powerful witch than any other. Gothel had frowned and pointed meaningfully at Hysteria’s cauldron, which lay empty. Hysteria understood. She vowed then, to cast every spell and spell every potion until her head ached and the words turned sour on her tongue. She had, and now...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The creaking of the bedroom door announces Ruth’s entry. Hysteria stiffens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This house is suffocating me,” her voice is small, but her meaning is clear. It isn’t the house, of course it isn't. A house is not capable of winding itself around you, of restricting you so that you cannot breathe. But Hysteria understands. She knows the feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She schools her expression before turning to pat the cushion beside her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you sit? We should talk about this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to,” Ruth says. “I don’t want to talk. I want to yell at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not what Hysteria expects her to say. She finds herself staring into the other witch’s face. Ruth looks stunned. As if this truly is the first time she’s hearing of any of this. As if she hadn’t the slightest inkling before tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m... sorry, I thought Alistair would have told you about the naming at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alistair?!” Ruth chokes. “Alistair isn’t here! He’s never here, and he hardly speaks to me when he is here! You’re the only person—” She makes a strangled sound and presses her fists to her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alarmed, Hysteria jumps to her feet, gesturing to the seat she’s vacated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please sit down, I’ll answer any questions you have!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth practically stomps her foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop trying to manage me! I’m angry!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria swallows, stares at the other witch. Her face is red. Her chin wobbles, and Hysteria can’t help it, she takes a stuttering step forward, then another one. She’s almost near enough to touch Ruth when the other woman takes her fists from her eyes. She crosses her arms over herself, averting her gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t have married into this family. I should’ve become a hedge witch and lived somewhere far away from here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ruth!” Hysteria almost cries it out, the surprise shaking her tone. “Please don’t say that. I will name your baby whatever you prefer. Just tell me what you want and it will be so!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s nearly there. If she can touch Ruth’s hand, her cheek, make her understand that she’s here. That they’re in this together-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth shoves away her hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the kind of gesture that means what it usually means to Hysteria, not under these circumstances, and not with this person. Ruth, who has always held her fingers warmly, and welcomed Hysteria’s hands on her arms, in her hair, at her back. This is the kind of rejection Hysteria has borne all her life. But because it is Ruth, it hurts all the more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not listening to me!” Ruth cries. “Why is it that all of my choices were snatched away the minute I married into this family? What are you going to do when my baby is born? Are you going to take them away from me?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Hysteria says. Her insides are burning with shame. Hysteria tries to swallow it, to tamp it down somehow. She can’t. It rises hot and spiny in her throat. It permeates the skin of her face. Unnerved, she touches her own cheek. She can feel her entire body radiate with the feeling. She cannot let this happen again. This cannot be her everyday, her normal. She will never survive it. “No, of course not!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what Gothel did with you!” Ruth argues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was different,” Hysteria can feel her voice wavering. She clenches her fists, willing herself to be rational. “My mother was unable to take care of me. You’ve— you’ve seen what my Godmother is like. Our situation won’t ever be like that. I swear it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to understand why that’s not enough. I can’t rely on promises!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Objectively, it makes sense. Words are only words. Hysteria understands, she does. What she can’t understand is why her promises aren’t enough. Ruth knows full well that promises are all she has to offer right now. She needs to be the family’s Godmother. She needs this house, this estate. She has nothing until she sits at the head of the table. She has no power until their baby is born, healthy and whole. Ruth knows this. She knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want!?” Hysteria says, throwing out her arms in disbelief. “You want to to- get out? To raise this baby all by yourself? I’m certain my godmother and your husband will give you their blessing and nothing horrid will come of it at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth’s face tightens when she says this. They are very close to each other. Hysteria can see the rising and falling of Ruth’s chest, her labored breathing. She can see Ruth’s blazing eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This whole place is a trap,” Ruth sneers. “I’ve been sold to you as a broodmare. I don’t even get a say in what happens to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Hysteria says. Her face feels white-hot. “I care, okay? I care about you and your baby. I want to take care of you both.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?” Ruth curtsies, mirthlessly. “And how must I better serve you in return, loving mistress? How do you expect me to be, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria’s chin wobbles. Her eyes sting. She grits her teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be quiet!” she hisses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth’s face, previously twisted in stubborn anger, falls. Her eyes widen. Quivering, she takes a step away, backing towards the door. Hysteria instantly regrets the words. Her anger shrivels away into nothing. She wrings her hands, finally feeling the full force of her desperation. The harshness of her tone weakens and turns to pleading. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please. Stay and have your baby. I’ll name them whatever you want. When I become godmother you can have whatever you want! Anything!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want some autonomy, Hysteria. That’s what I want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can have it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to name my own child. I want to have a say in their education.” She pauses, eyeing Hysteria, her face hard. “If I challenge these traditions, will you support me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria’s heart clenches. She folds then, crumbling into a sort of crouch on the bedroom floor, pressing her face into her hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to understand what kind of family we are. Rules are not made to be broken. It is unforgivable. If I were not so proficient at magic—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you are. And the rules are different for you.” Ruth’s voice is gentler now. The floorboards creak as she comes closer. Hysteria feels a hand on her hair. It travels from the crown of her head down to where her hands rest against her knees. Ruth tangles their fingers together. “Please, I need your help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria sighs. Regret has made her heart sick. She cannot say no. She realizes that she won’t refuse Ruth anything, despite the cost. But she fears the path ahead. The uncertainty makes it treacherous, it makes their alliance difficult. There is no rule for breaking rules in their family. There is no precedence for challenging tradition. She fears Godmother’s retribution more than she fears anything else in her life, aside from losing Ruth entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Losing Ruth entirely. Hysteria raises her head to stare at the other witch. Ruth has bent over as much as her girth will allow in order to take Hysteria’s hand. Her eyes are wide and searching, her mouth set in a thin line. Hysteria realises suddenly how deeply she cares about Ruth’s presence in her life. She thinks; every witch or wizard cares about others for the gifts they bring. Even better if they can be given what they want. Hysteria had justified her feelings for Ruth by thinking of godchildren and of freedom from her own family’s tyranny. If Ruth had no children, nothing would change. But if Ruth went away forever…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria squeezes the other’s woman’s hand and, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, rises to stand beside her. Her stomach churns in anxiety. But if Ruth went away forever; Hysteria would be devastated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will support you.” Hysteria says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Godmother,” Ruth says at dinner the next evening, and Hysteria closes her eyes, not wanting to see their reactions when they hear what Ruth is about to say. “I wanted to ask you, um.  I want to propose a new plan… a different plan. For my baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to name her. And to help teach her magic. I’ve always wanted--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Hysteria opens her eyes, Godmother’s face is impassive. Beside Ruth, his hand still curled into hers on the table, Alistair looks stunned. Hysteria’s mother bursts into raucous laughter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of all the ideas!” She exclaims, grinning toothily at her sister. Gothel does not smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m aware that in other families, children are to be raised by their own mothers, or whomever is around to care for them at all.” She says. “But this family has its own way of doing things. Hysteria—.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I understand,” Ruth says. “I’ve spoken with Hysteria about this and she agrees that I should have a say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of the heads at the table snap towards her then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You!” Alistair seethes. His face is bright red. He points across the table at Hysteria.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silence, Alistair.” Godmother snaps. Alistair’s arm drops like a deadweight. Godmother leans carefully back against her chair at the head of the table. She fixes Ruth with a patient stare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are new to the family, Ruth. This sort of argument can easily become rife with misunderstanding. Given that Hysteria is well aware of the Hardbroom traditions and the principles guiding them, I will go over with her what you have proposed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I wanted to be involved in this conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are involved, Ruth. This conversation is all about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you not already spoken with Hysteria? If you do not trust her to explain yourself to me perhaps she does not fully understand your needs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth opens her mouth, then closes her mouth, looks at Hysteria. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It might be like her stomach were stuffed full of sand, with how she feels when Ruth looks at her then. It’s Ruth’s expression that does it. The struggle of trying to maintain what she wants against Gothel’s unyielding will. It quickly melts away to an expression of absolute faith and confidence when she meets Hysteria’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do trust her.” Ruth smiles. Hysteria does not. Instead, she ducks her head, fighting the vile curling in her stomach at what has been precisely the wrong thing to say. Ruth’s face falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful,” Godmother coos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must be tired, dearest,” Alistair says. ”Why don’t you go to bed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No, I—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An excellent idea,” Gothel says. She touches her own eyes and then, with the same hand, flicks her fingers at the other woman. “Goodnight, Ruth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth’s expression clouds, and then dissipates, until it seems there is nothing left to intrude on her thoughts. Eyes glassy, she stands from her seat, bending to brush her lips against Alistair’s cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight,” she breathes. She leaves the dining room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Ruth has gone, Hysteria’s godmother lunges across the table and seizes Hysteria by the ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you think is going to happen now but I can tell you it’s going to be a great deal less pleasant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, Hysteria, of all the foolish notions,” Hysteria’s mother says, spooning forkfuls of baklava into her mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t have the idea, mother. I assure you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, as if you didn’t put it into her little head?” Alistair’s face is scrunched with anger. “My wife is sweet and obedient. You’re a sickness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be silent, Alistair,” Godmother hisses. She stands, dragging Hysteria with her. The doors to the drawing room open and shut of their own accord, plunging the area into utter privacy. Godmother, who is never sweet, wrenches Hysteria’s ear so hard her legs nearly buckle. Hysteria recovers well enough to slap her away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not punish me. This will not end well if you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother snarls and bears ground, backing Hysteria right up to the corner where the ancient writing desk sits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All you had to do,” Godmother hisses, “was tell that girl she was being very silly and that she should follow our traditions as she promised when she married into this family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She had no idea what our traditions entailed,” Hysteria hisses back. “Her parents practically sold her to us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you care, child? Do you want to be rid of your obligation to her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never said that,” Hysteria counters, too quickly. Her face grows hot. Godmother’s eyes widen, her mouth sets. Hysteria extricates herself from the corner, navigating around the other woman carefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She just wants to have a say.” Hysteria says, as calmly as she can manage. Godmother is watching her like a cat. “That’s all she wants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother crosses her arms in front of her and goes to the armoire where a box of cigars waits for anyone with a craving. She lights the end of one with a snap of her fingers, and sits by the window for a long time, puffing thoughtfully. Hysteria cannot look at her. She sits down on one the armchairs in the center of the room, staring diligently at the whorls and swirls of the carpet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As a general rule,” Godmother begins. “You should never give the people you love the things they want. Do you understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you give Ruth what she truly wants, she will take it and then she will leave you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If she wants to raise her own child let her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be dense.” Godmother says, puffing away. “Do you want her to be free of us? No. You don’t. Am I wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Hysteria does not answer, Gothel flicks her cigar at her. A flurry of cinders shoots across the room and catches the younger witch in the ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Hysteria mutters, wincing as she flicks ash out of her hair. “You’re not wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely. So you can tell Ruth that if she’s going to live under my roof she’ll abide by Hardbroom tradition.“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t be your roof for long. When I become godmother—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely </span>
  </em>
  <span>contingent upon whether or not she remains to give you a godchild. You know that. We want the same things, Hysteria. Remember that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria waits less than a day to breach the subject with Ruth again. It’s the early afternoon when Hysteria goes looking for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d rehearsed a script of sorts, of what she’d wanted to say. Something that would communicate that Gothel Hardbroom doesn’t react well to bargaining. That sometimes you have to give a little away to her, so that you may have something left for yourself later. Hysteria calls this “compromise”, but she isn’t sure it will convince Ruth. Regardless, she repeats the script carefully to herself as she goes, committing the argument to memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the fullness of spring, the garden is overgrown and lovely. Because of this, she has to search for Ruth's bright hair among the blooms. When Hysteria finds her, Ruth is not alone. She sits gingerly on a stone bench as Hysteria’s father looms over her. He is bent awkwardly at the waist. Their faces are very close together. Hysteria cannot hear what he’s saying, but Ruth’s eyes are bright and wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alarmed, all thoughts of her careful script fly directly out of her head. Hysteria makes her presence known. Gethin straightens immediately, sways as if in a stupor, and walks away without looking at Hysteria for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ruth,” Hysteria says. Ruth holds out her hand. Hysteria takes it, and lets Ruth pull her down to sit beside her. “I’m sorry, he’s… erratic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t apologize,” Ruth says. “I love your father. We’re wonderful friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Hysteria says, perturbed and confused. “Then I’m sorry to have interrupted you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” Ruth hums, staring at her. She doesn't say anything, merely sits there, staring, waiting for Hysteria to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’m sorry,” Hysteria says, surprising herself not at all. “For being so close minded, before. You deserve all of it. You deserve to choose your child’s name, and you deserve the rest of it, freedom, autonomy. You should have those options.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria folds her hands together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will support any decision you want to make, Ruth, I swear it. I’ll speak to my family on your behalf. I can do all of that. But until I become Godmother, I have very little power in their eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is why you need me. I think I understand what this means to you. You want to rule this family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that not a good thing?” Hysteria asks, spreading her hands. I can make this place better for us. If— If you wanted to leave us...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t stop you. But… I want to do everything to make you happy here. I want you to want to stay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth’s smile is very small, and kind. She puts her arms around Hysteria, tucking her face against Hysteria’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It makes me happy to be close to you,” she says. “I want you to know that… it’s important to me that you care, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria is suddenly very thankful that they are sitting down. The warmth of Ruth’s body against her is affecting her faculties. Her limbs are weak with inexplicable bliss. She leans into the other woman, allowing the soft, curling hair to brush her cheek. As if sensing her shortness of breath, Ruth releases her. Her face is glowing with satisfaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria doesn’t mean to grab Ruth’s hands then. She tries never to reach for others regardless of whether they know about the ash. She can’t help it. She cradles Ruth’s palms in hers. She presses them to her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could I not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They vow together to form a united front when the time arrives. They don’t bring the subject of naming up any longer. When their family asks, they avoid the questions like the plague. They lie in wait until…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria watches Ruth’s labor with the kind of detachment of a person who knows their life is changing… who must observe it happen with numb intent, or else go mad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room fades in and out. Hysteria does her best to focus, </span>
  <em>
    <span>focus</span>
  </em>
  <span> for god's sake. There’s the bed, and the woman on it, wincing and sweating as the midwife guides her through the motions. Alistair looms to Ruth’s left, schooling his face like a good sport every time Ruth squeezes his hand. Hysteria’s mother stands on the other side, hands to her mouth as she watches, barely containing the giggles that escape from behind her fingers. And, of course there’s Gothel, lording over the entire function as her very last act as the head of the Hardbroom family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria stands tensely against the wall by the window, wringing her be-gloved hands. Her father stands beside her, which counts as one of the first times Gethin Hardbroom has shown any sort of tolerance for Hysteria’s presence since she was eight. His eyes are wide and alert. She blinks when his head swivels to look directly at her. This is another thing he has not done in a very long time. Hysteria swallows hard, she chances to touch her father’s sleeve, and then wrap her hand around his stringy bicep. He allows the touch. Gathering strength from this, Hysteria turns her eyes back to the scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Different parts of Ruth come in and out of visibility as the amalgamation of bodies orbits around the bed. Hysteria cranes her neck. There’s Ruth’s lower body, knees bent and barely covered with a blanket. A few strands of red hair on a pillow, her heaving chest, hands gripping other hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then. And then!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A baby’s wail. Ruth collapses, her whole body sinking back into the pillows and blankets in exhaustion. The entire family shifts to the end of the bed where a tiny body is being lifted and scrutinized. Hysteria can see Ruth’s face now. Her skin is flushed and sweaty. Someone reaches over to stroke her cheek. Her eyelids droop closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria stares, confused for only a moment. And then Gothel is removing herself from the bedside, a bundle in her arms, and walking towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a baby girl. Ten fingers, ten toes, a nearly invisible crop of slick black hair on her tiny head. Hysteria’s eyes flood with the sight of her. She can’t help herself, she holds out her arms. Gothel hands the baby over, and waits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a long moment. Hysteria looks at the baby. She studies her, more like. She watches the soft, scrunched face that contorts with displeasure at the cool air. She stares at the little nose, the fingernails, the precious forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you name her?” Talia’s voice is quiet and needling. Hysteria gazes at the baby a moment longer. Then she looks up. Her mother, brother, and godmother have all gathered around. They are watching raptly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out,” Hysteria says. “All of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s when they back away, shuffling one by one out the door, that Hysteria feels that she can breathe again. Her heart hammers away at her ribcage as she goes to the bed and sits, carefully, beside Ruth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost immediately, the other witch’s eyes open. Hysteria lays the baby on her chest. Ruth makes an incoherent sound. She puts her arms around the newborn, strokes one soft red cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” she says, eyes glassy. Hysteria chokes on a laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look what you did,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I know!” Ruth laughs too, then sobers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was afraid we’d never get the opportunity. So I didn’t choose a name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ruth’s lip quivers. She looks from Hysteria to the baby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember what Godmother said? About how she named you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ruth, I don’t want--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh,” Ruth giggles. “Listen. Gothel named you after the first thing you ever inflicted upon the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Woe should I forget.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well.” Ruth says. “It’s a little off-color. But I’m not entirely averse to the idea.” She sighs, rocking the little thing in her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joy,” she says quietly, lips grazing the baby’s soft forehead. “Joy Hardbroom, I’m your mummy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria’s heart rattles to life when Ruth leans in, angling the baby towards her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this is your Godmother. You make us so happy, little one.” She looks at Hysteria. “Do you approve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria can’t speak, she just nods, not taking her eyes off of the Joy’s scrunched face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She still needs a middle name.” Ruth says. “What do you think, Godmother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria emerges from the room not long after, feeling light. Feeling powerful. Her mother and brother linger in the hall. When she steps away from the door, they rush in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finds Godmother in the study. The heavyset woman is sitting very calmly in one of the upright chairs. The curtains in the room are half drawn, casting the area in relative shade. The cherry of her cigar glows red hot in the low light. Hysteria closes the door. Slowly, she peels the gloves from her fingers, one at a time, and tosses them carelessly over the back of the nearest chair. Godmother says nothing. Hysteria takes the opportunity to stare at her fingers. It is the first time in a very, very long time that she can look at them without resentment. She accepts them as the brand of her cursed existence. But she knows now. She knows their cause and effect. She knows whose curse it really is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve set up comfortable living accommodations for you on the moor. I encourage you to take them. You are not permitted to live in this house with my godchild.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother’s upper lip curls, her graying teeth clench as she waves her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could have been so much like you,” Hysteria continues. “You should consider yourself so fortunate that I would never willingly do to this family the damage you have wrought.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Never?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Godmother snorts, her eyebrow quirking. “Dear girl, you’ve not even been given the responsibility. No matter, you are Godmother now. I trust in your ability to make the difficult decisions. I have not failed in raising you, despite what your feelings are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings?!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hysteria hisses, her temper boiling over. She waves her hands wildly, they are gray and gold blurs in the air. “I am ashen cursed. You used me! I was a child, I didn’t understand what was happening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not speak to me of that. You were instrumental in healing your own mother, ash or no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By sacrificing my father instead?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria remembers how Gothel held him down, hit him, ordered her to reach for him with her burning fingers, to take what ounce of sanity he had, to make it solid, to grip it in her hands. To take it from him, to give it to the woman laid out beside him, her face split open in a crooked fissure. Hysteria can’t forget. She will never forget. And she will not allow herself to be the only villain who suffers for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Godmother’s expression shifts from blasé to downright furious in an instant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was pregnant!” Godmother hisses. “She’d been a brainless vegetable since the day you were born. She couldn’t do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> for herself, but that didn’t stop him, oh no. Another child like you would have finished her for good. I was the head of the family, I was not going to let him take my sister from me again!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria stares with wide eyes. Gothel grits her jaw and continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were— are the most powerful witch in the family. Even as a child. That kind of raw power was the only thing that could have saved her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now,” Hysteria argues. “My father is a ghost. My mother is a lunatic. And I am feared and shunned wherever I show my hands. I hope you see the irony. I hope you understand these details, because you were the only one to get out of that ritual in one piece. The consequences for you were non-existent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t appreciate—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will never, ever forgive you. That’s why you’re no longer allowed in this house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gothel stands, the sudden movement casts cigar smoke in all directions. “I’ve accepted that, my pretty. But here’s something I </span>
  <em>
    <span>humbly</span>
  </em>
  <span> implore you to consider. If you fail at your duties to this family. If you forget your place, I will come for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assure you, Aunt. I’d rather be burned at the stake than abandon Ruth and her child now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gothel extinguishes the stub in the pewter dish on the end table. When she leans forward, the evening light falls across her face. “I am not so concerned about that.” Her eyes are pale green and bright and intense. She sneers. “You have your responsibilities to this entire family. You have a responsibility to Ruth, and to Hecate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And to any future godchildren. And to Alistair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hysteria is as still as stone. She forces herself to breathe through her nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know where the line lies.” Godmother’s voice is low. She leaves Hysteria there, staring furiously at the pewter dish, quivering with something that is not quite rage and not quite fear.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading the first part! I'm thinking that there's going to be 5 but I might condense it into 4. </p><p>Anyways I don't know how 2 write... so these are British witches who sort of talk like Americans. I hope you understand!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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